


St. Thomas Aquinas or, The Deliverance of Justice

by LittleRedRoseontheValley



Series: Menologium [2]
Category: Desire & Decorum (Visual Novel)
Genre: Aristocracy, Children, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Marriage of Convenience, Murder, Poisoning, Revenge, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 03:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16276955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedRoseontheValley/pseuds/LittleRedRoseontheValley
Summary: Every night, the Duchess requires to hear a twisted tale from the Duke. Tonight the ending may be very different.





	St. Thomas Aquinas or, The Deliverance of Justice

**Author's Note:**

> Theoretically, I did not break my promise about Mary Magdalene not having a sequel because this is a stand-alone prequel. Go technicalities!
> 
> So for those who do not know, I ‘defended’, as in, I suggested it could have happened that the supposed affair between Sleazy Duke and Dead Mrs Sinclaire could have been rape and that the affair thing was actually a cover-up, made up to preserve herself, Ernest’s social standing or, like in this fic, because of a threat from Lord Douchebag.
> 
> Enjoy!

“ _The good understood is the object of the will, and moves it as an end._ ”

_~ Summa Theologiae_ _Ia 82.4_

* * *

 

“Tell me the story.”

Most conversations between the ducal couple started on this fashion, with the Duchess demanding to hear a certain tale from the Duke, which the prideful man never failed to comply.

“What is about it that you like so much?” He wonders, not for the first time.

“Needs and desires are endless, love,” She cryptically responds, as she often did. “Absolute satisfaction and complete comprehension are not possible.”

On the privacy of his thoughts, Tristan felt compelled into understanding how a legitimated bastard ever could achieve a level of culture superior to his own, but then a small, annoying voice reminded him that it was not that much of a hurdle.

“Very well, then.” He nodded and made himself comfortable on his armchair. “I was a guest at your esteemed father’s estate one of these summers. The season in London had ended and I dreaded the dull fate that awaited me at my own home, as I decided to humour Vincent with a prolonged visit. A great honour to an earl to host a duke, and he performed his duties with admirable dedication.

“I was sad to realize, though, that the Earl had no daughters. He did, of course, but back then you were not even the wildest figment of their imagination. The Countess was every bit of a shrew as she was when you began gracing those halls with your presence, so you must realize the tremendous boredom I started to feel a few days into my stay.

“I was starting to consider leaving when I met them. The young couple next door, Mr and Mrs Sinclair. By then, they were married for a season, certainly not more than that. He was certainly more pleasant and sociable than he ever was on his later years, though still with that annoying veneer of superiority he used to throw around during your debut season.

“The lady, however, she was a beauty. Hair the colour of gold, framing a face you would think belonged to a porcelain doll. The breasts were firm and uppity, delectable like ripe peaches.

“As you may expect, I spent my time in Grovershire trailing around Mrs Sinclaire. I took every opportunity to be in her company, with as little third parties present as possible. I had a goal, and it was to bed that woman.

“One afternoon, a week or two after meeting her, I confessed my ‘love’ for her, on that saccharine manner you women seem to prefer. I said I could not sleep without dreaming of her, that food could not sustain me, that my breath was short near her and other meaningless nonsense.

“She admonished me over it, frigid as she was. Said it was not proper to have those impure thoughts about a married lady. That she was _happy_ , if you can believe it, with her puny husband.

“I gave her every chance to amend her mistake, but she insisted that she was not interested in pursuing anything with me. I would not let that lowborn demimondaine cunt to mock me so, of course I would not.

“So, one night, she was out and alone, walking off a sick stomach on the manor gardens. Knowing I would not have a better chance, I trailed behind and shoved her into a bush. On the overgrowth, I took what was rightfully mine and I had a sweet time doing it. I wager she did, too, I am a skilled lover, as you well know.

“After I was done and dressed, I told her I would make her husband’s life very uncomfortable if she ever muttered a single word of what happened that night to any living soul.

“As fate would have it, she was impregnated from the act. She was too weak to lie to Mr Sinclaire and confessed it was not his child. She confessed it was mine, that we had been together that summer. She died in childbirth, scorned.”

The Duchess observed her husband impassively during the telling of his tale, not unlike she always did on all those years of marriage. She would say nothing, would move nothing until he was done, upon such time she would retire to sleep.

That day, however, she remained comfortably nested on her own seat, by the pianoforte she enjoyed playing in the evening.

Tristan took a sip of his tea and, facing the unusual circumstance, asks: “Did you enjoy the tale, love?”

“I find it ironic.” She answered, calmly.

A pair of eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Ironic? Why?”

“You take sick pride on burdening Mr Sinclaire with your bastard child, of violating his wife and his home.” She says, and a nefarious, sadistic smile graces her features. “Little you know Ernest avenged himself.”

“What are you talking about?” He says, with no hint of amusement.

“Madeleine is not your daughter. He and I conceived her on the night of our marriage, when you were too drunk to perform your duties. We did it on your chambers, on your bed, and it was the only time I _enjoyed_ being with a man.”

The Duke seemed to try to say something, but suddenly he starts turning red, like he could not breathe. He coughs and chokes in his own saliva and his arm cramps.

“He… Help!” He begs. “Call help!”

The Duchess stands from her stool and walks over to the agonizing man. She stands cruelly in front of him, observing with glee the constraining and angst the poison she procured was causing during the last minutes of her husband.

“Did she ask for help, My Grace? Did Mrs Sinclaire ask for help?” She question, a steely glint on her eye. “Did any of your victims ever screamed at the top of their lungs for a heaven sent, for you to take pity on them? Did you ever comply?”

His eyes widen, realizing what was happening, what it would come to pass in a matter of minutes.

She continues, “I never cared about anyone but myself, Tristan. I still do not. But I cannot help myself but to feel sympathetic of all those women you robbed a chance of future, whose lives you destroyed, after coming so close to spend my time on this Earth on a sub-par, hand-to-mouth existence over the uncontrollable urges of an entitled nobleman like you.”

The Duchess leans over to his ear and whispers, “Say hello to Satan for me, love.”


End file.
